Cursor jumping on the page,
Rage with interest—fidgeting,
Waiting for words
To fall into place.

Each syllable
Clamoring for attention,
Jostling, bumping into one another.

Wringing out words,
Winding down the page.

Who floats just above the skyline,
knows the wonders of the world.

What I really want to know,
Is while her frock flies to and fro,
Have you really seen her knees?

Her toes are an absolute pleasure,
her ankles are fun to measure,
Despite all this fun at leisure,
I'm a stranger to those knees.

She'd rather charm and please,
Tantalize, tickle and tease,
Than show those blasted knees!

And when I tell her so-
She'll display her elbow
and say "They're just the same,
with a different name".

Some day in her eyes, lemon I’ll squirt,
then quickly tear the hem of her skirt
And take a good look at those knees.

Whose got the answers?
Rise oh rise!
Whose got the answers now?

Whose criticizing?
Oh rise, oh rise?
Whose criticizing now?

Who thinks they know,
and who knows they think?

Trumping their thoughts,
onto me?

Who knows what's right,
and who knows what's wrong?

Who has the answers to fix everyone?

Tell me, oh tell me,
I just have to know,
whose got the answers now?

Telephones.
Earphones.
Earplugs.

To drown out
Baby cries.
Engines exhaling.
Anxiety.

"Don't be afraid"
"You've done this before"
"He knows what he's doing"


The tired.
The disagreeable.
The impossibly experienced.

Tickets.
Bags.
Smile-free faces.


I'm ready.
You're ready.
Let's go already.

People diein' on the streets.
****** puddles at our feets.

But we could be a family.
We could be a whole.
We could be together.
But no one could be cold.

If we could live on an island,
no hate,
no guns,
no war.
We'd look back and wonder,
what was it all for?

People diein' on the streets.
****** puddles at our feets.

Gangs,
tempts,
nudes,
exempts.

We sit at desk,
eating or eaten.
we laughed at or laughing.
beating or bleedin'.

We know the truth, but call it cruel.
The cruel one is we, the blind fool.

People diein' on the streets
****** puddles at our feets.

Who shot the most guns?
Who then killed them all?
Who didn't mind a casualty?
Who could be responsible?

"Not me!" we cry,
"I'm a good soul."
But even if we declined,
can I be told where they go?

I want to run.
Be free.
Be the little girl they see in me,
but plot-twist happen frequently,
opening your eyes to things you didn't see.
Burning the cheerful into your mind.
If only I didn't once leave that behind.
If I could return to those naive, fun days.
But fun was out and sad was in,
so I figured "well okay."
I dived right in,
singeing my skin,
turning me to the pit.
I was told,
"don't follow your instincts",
so I guess this is what I get.
Now I sit alone,
a pitiful lump of coal,
as a dog without bone,
or soccer ball with no goal.
I'm heading to "God knows where"
on a train called "Oopsy Days,"
and when I arrive,
they will all be amazed.
For I am the writer
who will give them a story,
for I am a lighter,
and my flame gives me glory.

She could die any day.
Just tip-toe away.
                                                                But what would they say?
They still say she's okay.
                                                                      ...They don't say "please stay."
They cry when good men die.
They cry when they are scared.
They cry all the time.
They cry here.
They cry there.
So why?
                                                                                             Why?
Why for her,                                                               they don't cry?

Here she will fly                                                     between fire and sky,
                                                                                         in an ocean
her only air being devotion.
Life&Death; her only notion.
                                                                        Is it bad to wish for a potion?
A spell to make this spell go?
She may try so-,
                                                                                  but I just don't know.
Why?
                                                                                              Why?
                                                                                  Why can't they see?

The lost,
the falling,
she's calling
she gives them a sign,
she loses grasp of her life's line.
Why?
                                                                                              Why?
                                                                                  Why don't they cry?

Cry for her.
Care for her!
See her here!
                                                                                         Please..
                                                                                                   one tear.
Suppress her deepest fear.
Her pain is not mere.
She WILL fall,
if there is no bridge,
between the buildings in her mind.
She WILL tumble,
down,
if no one holds her hand,
and she get's left behind.
Save her.
Savor her.
For like this she will not last.
Deprived of what she needs,
internally she bleeds.
                                                                                             Cry
for just one day.
Prove to her,
she will be okay.
Teach her,
how to no be alone.
Love her,
don't leave her on her own.
                                                                                             Cry
Don't lie to her.
Don't act so refined.
She knows those lies,
she isn't blind.
And for once,
just for once,
when her thoughts have intertwined,
I beg of you,
I plead of you,
no one leave her behind.